


A Dreamy, Melodious Air

by kimmyjarl



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimmyjarl/pseuds/kimmyjarl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Holmes played his violin, he became somebody else. Or maybe I did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dreamy, Melodious Air

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on shkinkmeme: You know that bit at the end of a chapter in The Sign of Four...  
> This part: "Holmes took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air—his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound until I found myself in dreamland..."  
> I want to see him playing it the same way, except while riding Watson at the same time. Granada/ACD and as steamy as possible, please! ;)

When Holmes played his violin, he became somebody else.

Or maybe I did.

Not all of Holmes’ music was soothing or beautiful, but when it was – when Holmes closed his eyes and started playing in earnest, his lean body swaying with the music, he became somebody else. I don’t know how to explain it.

No, I do.

When Holmes played I wanted to touch him. It seemed like an ordinary impulse at first, wanting to be close to my dear friend. He was always distant. Brilliant, yes, but so imposing, so secretive. I had seen glimpses of his heart, but most of the time he just kept it hidden.

Except, maybe, when he played.

What was it about the music that made me aware of his body, of his long limbs and his narrow back? I didn’t want to stare at him like that, but I did. My God I stared at him, as enthralled, as captivated as I had been by any beautiful woman. I looked at his throat, his hands, his face, and I wanted him.

It was a gradual thing, but I couldn’t deny it. As Holmes played, oblivious, lost in his music, I became aware of the angle of his hips, of the gentle swell of his buttocks. I thought about touching his skin and I became warm, flushed. I could only be grateful that his eyes were closed, because I knew there were times when my shameful thoughts were written all across my face.

And Holmes could read my face like none other.

He was my friend. Yes, I admired him and I admired his work, but mostly he was just my friend. We ate together, smoked together, talked and laughed together. I knew he relied on me. The last thing I wanted was to betray him. But betray him I did, with wandering eyes and intrusive fantasies.

*

I woke up. It was dark and, I thought, completely silent. I slowly became aware of a sound, a low ethereal note, a slow vibration in the air. I lay there for several moments before I understood what I was hearing. It was Holmes, playing in the night.

I donned my slippers and put a thick robe on over my nightgown. The air was chilly and I was careful as I walked, not to trip in the dark. I stopped at the door to the sitting room. Whatever I had expected, it wasn’t this. A fire blazed in the fireplace and several candles were scattered around the room, standing in golden pools of light. And there, in front of the fire, was Holmes. He was dressed in his robe, his back turned towards me. He was playing so softly, so gently, in the lowest voice the violin was capable of producing.

“My dear doctor.”

The murmured words came as no surprise. The music ceased as Holmes, in a fluid and graceful motion, lifted the bow off the strings and pointed towards the sofa. I sat down as if in a dream, and the music resumed, that single measured voice floating upwards, like a mythical dancer towards the dark London sky.

I don’t know how long I sat there, not quite awake, not quite dreaming, leaning back against the soft cushions and listening to Holmes. Apart from the violin, the night was silent. The warmth from the fire, the early hour, everything conspired to make it feel like our room was the only one in the universe, a place separated from time and from space.

Holmes still hadn’t looked at me, and in this strange, lonely place I found myself admiring his figure without recrimination. He leaned forward, cradling the violin, coaxing it with long fingers. The bow rose and fell. I watched his profile, the smooth curve of his cheekbone panted golden by the fire. His feet were bare, and so were his ankles. He was, I noticed between one breath and another, naked underneath his robe.

Once noticed, his state of undress was quite apparent. The sleeve of the robe had fallen away from his forearm, and I watched slim muscles tense and flex as his fingers pressed upon the stings. His shoulder blades shifted smoothly beneath the thin fabric. I could see every line of his body.

So strange was the night and the music that it felt like a most natural thing, the desire that uncoiled in the pit of my stomach. I sat there on the sofa, leaning back, comfortably warm and relaxed, watching him. Without thinking about it, my hand wandered to my groin. It was only then, cupping my burgeoning erection, that my sense came back to me. I sat up abruptly, pulling my robe around me, flushed and flustered.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have to…”

“Hm?”

The melody didn’t stop, but he turned towards me, slow like the music, and I froze on the edge of the sofa. My breath left me, all in a rush. For his robe was open, haphazardly tied at his waist, but leaving a line of skin, his pale chest, the inner curve of his thigh. And there, jutting out most indecently, I saw the shape of his stiff member.

And Holmes kept playing, a soothing lilt that seemed to implore me directly: stay. Be calm. Don’t go. And slowly I acquiesced. I leaned back. I let my robe fall away until there was nothing to conceal the all too apparent bulge under my nightgown. I saw the tip of his tongue came out to wet his lips. His eyes were not closed, not at all, he was looking at me in a way I had never imagined, his lips parted, eyes soft and intense.

The music shifted, the rhythm, drawn out and throbbing, I thought his violin had never sounded more like a human voice. And all the while he was staring straight at me, our eyes locking, until both of us were breathing quite heavily. It was the most uncanny moment. But it seemed as long as he was playing, there was nothing I wouldn’t do. So I lifted the edge of my nightgown, pulled it away from my groin and bared myself under his eyes.

I had nothing to be ashamed of, enough women had told me thus, but this was different. I don’t think I’ve ever been this conscious about that particular part of my anatomy, never thought about the _girth_ as I did when Holmes watched, as my cock seemed to grow even further, to swell under his eyes, a sluggish snake distending between my legs.

“I…” I twisted to the side, distressed suddenly, very much ready to leave. The music stopped, on a false note, and Holmes was right there, laying the violin and the bow on the sofa, pushing me back against the cushions with light urgent hands.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait.” And his lips were on my brow, on my temple, warm and imploring. I felt his fingers in the hair above my neck, his breath on the side of my face, and I was quite undone. Holmes… he was touching me like I was precious, like he truly, truly cared. I could have stayed there forever, his long fingers in my hair.

He knelt above me, and kissed my throat.

And then he sank down on me and took me inside him, just like that. His knees were by my sides, his weight rested on top of my hips and my member was fully seated inside his body. I had heard of this, of course. And I’m a doctor, I also knew that before I came into the sitting room, he must have prepared himself – made himself slick and open – to be able to accept me with such ease.

“Holmes…”

The only thing I could say. My voice was choked off. I was. I was paralyzed, unable to fathom this. It was… I needed – _Holmes_ was. I needed to think.

Holmes sat, back straight, looking down on me. Whatever he saw on my face, it made him sigh. He closed his eyes, bent his head, all stillness. Without looking, he reached out his hand to retrieve his violin.

The first long note tore through me, that visceral sound. He was playing low and melodious, a continuous, wandering air. The music, this close, it was different. The melody strung through me, through both of us. Swaying. We were connected, and Holmes was right there, his weight on me, every movement, he was building the music with his body.

He was no longer too close. He was fine. Fine in my lap, fine to have him like this. I reached out, put my hands on his thighs. Yes. It was an amazing thing. Holmes was _on_ me, my hands were on him, right on the skin, his naked hips, touching him. I hesitated only slightly before untying the rope of his robe. The robe fell off his shoulders and onto the floor, and I felt him laugh, soundlessly.

My hands were on his waist, stroking, exploring. He truly was slender, I could marvel at that, at how much of him my hands covered. I ran my hands over his sides, the small of his back, and I reached down and touched, reverently, the place where I had entered his body. His thighs tensed, and I felt an unrefined dip in the music as I slipped one finger in alongside my cock and explored the rim of his opening. He laughed again, and opened his eyes to look at me. I smiled back at him – though shyly – and his eyes fell shut and he just played.

The music descended over us, slow and effortless like the breath of a sleeper, and he swayed softly back and forth with the cadence of his violin. A gentle movement back and forth. My hands lay on his hips, lightly touching.

It was a dance, and I sank into it. Just leaned my head back and felt. The most gentle assault. He rocked over me, I slid inside of him, back and forth. A man could drown. Sink and never reach the surface.

The music kept soaring, and I was aware of everything. The rough fabric of the sofa. The air on my lips. The warmth from the fire on my knees. All my thoughts had turned into sensation. I have a name, I knew this. It dissolved like a drop in the ocean.

Heat. One would think we were in the tropics. Palm trees. My hands slid on his skin. No longer serene. He lifted and sank down on me, a deep cadence. A strong rhythm. Not a violin. Him. He had stopped playing, set the violin aside. It was just him and me now. His hands were on my shoulders, and he was breathing heavily. I rose to meet him, his weight on me, I matched it, thrust into him, the strong rhythm.

There was nearly no hesitation. My hand closed around his manhood, and his length slid within my grip. A few tentative strokes and my hand sped up, sure and fast. Tight. He was close, I could tell. His muscles quivered. His stomach, the inside of his thighs. I stroked harder, didn’t let up. It felt like a privilege, to administer him though his orgasm. His rhythm became uneven as he sank down on me, hard and deep, pushing against me like he felt every bit of it, like he only wanted more.

He tightened around me when he came.

Breathed hard, clutched, held me, all of him. So strong.

I’d die for him. I would.

Slowly, he relaxed. Sagged against me. His hands were on the back of my neck, his breath hot on my cheek. He breathed out, long and slow. Then he eased away from me, slid off my erection – I had to restrain myself from pulling him back down. Holmes wasn’t leaving. He was making space on the sofa. He put the violin and the bow on a side table, his movements precise and deliberate.

He lay down on his back, legs parting, easily, smoothly. One knee against the backrest of the sofa. His long limbs were pale in the dusky light. The fire was embers in the fireplace. Outside, the sky had started to brighten.

“Come. Come back to me.”

God in heaven. But I did. I knelt between his legs and entered him with a single, careful shove. I pushed at his legs, lifted him, and could hold off no longer. I began to thrust, slammed into him again and again. He felt remarkable. Tight and hot. Welcoming me with breathless grunts and hands on my arms that tugged me closer. I held on tighter, held him still, and fucked him with a savage abandon that I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of.

I had longed to touch him. I had looked at him in secret and longed for him to put his arms around me.

He had always been so far away.

I stared at his face, at his eyes, watched him receive me. His countenance was open, naked, stripped of all coldness, a breathless smile never far from his lips. He looked back at me, kept meeting my eyes, shook as I slammed our bodies together.

The way I jarred him.

It was a sight to see.

I slowed down when the end was close. Slid in and out of him, a single note close to the edge. Kept thrusting as I came, slow and unsteady in and out. Coming inside of Holmes. Just that knowledge was incredible. And when it was over I pushed into him a few times more, cock spent and overly sensitized. I laid down on the sofa, on his arm, my leg over his. I put my arm around his back. His cock was half-hard, and we were shaky and damp and I kissed him.

We kissed, mouths open, bodies tangling. Air and breath and tongue. I kissed him. Him. This man. Something compelled me to slide my hand down his back and slip two fingers into his opening, wet from my essence and still relaxed. He hissed at the intrusion and his mouth fell away from mine.

“Holmes?” I immediately pulled away. Raising myself on my elbow I touched his shoulder, just briefly. “I… that is… are you alright?”

And this was still Holmes. Holmes lying next to me. I didn’t know what to say to him, and I felt bashful suddenly, my heart beating in my chest with renewed vigor.

He sighed, smiling as he looked at me. “Watson…” He reached up and touched my cheek. “My gentle John. Come back here.” He guided me down, my head to his shoulder, his fingers in my hair. He stroked me lightly, and I fell still against him.

“It’s morning,” he said. “The sun is out. A night well spent, wouldn’t you say, old friend?”

 


End file.
